


Alternative Endings, Fix-Its And Sexy Stuff

by LadyGlinda



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A Universe Without Mary And The Fall And The Final Problem, A Universe Without Sherlock Falling For Irene, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Basically How I Wished The Canon Would Be, Episode: s01e01 A Study in Pink, Episode: s01e03 The Great Game, Fix-It, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Smut, Jealous Mycroft, John Is So Done, M/M, Possessive Mycroft, Sibling Incest, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:07:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22508278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/pseuds/LadyGlinda
Summary: Glimpses at A Study In Pink and The Great Game and how it should have really been, in my opinion.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes
Comments: 31
Kudos: 73





	1. A Study In Pink - Possessiveness

Damn… Living with Sherlock would certainly never be boring… John couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so alive. In fact, he was having the time of his life. After killing someone, fine, but it had been a murderer after all; a murderer who had been close to making his new friend kill himself.

Sherlock turned to him with a light smile. “Dinner?”

“Starving.” He could eat a whole pig to be honest. The adrenaline always made him hungry.

Sherlock nodded. “End of Baker Street, there’s a good Chinese stays open ’til two. You can always tell a good Chinese by examining the bottom third of the door handle.”

This was a remarkable statement but before John could ask him to elaborate, someone got out of a black car. The man who had kidnapped him! Sherlock's archenemy! “Sherlock. That’s him. That’s the man I was talking to you about.” What was he doing here? Looking so casual?

“I know exactly who that is.” Sherlock didn’t seem to be surprised. At all.

The man, tall and elegant, followed by the stunning woman that John had met in the car, approached them and showed something that resembled a smile. “So, another case cracked. How very public spirited... Though that’s never really your motivation, is it?”

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock snarled.

“As ever, I’m concerned about you.”

Yes. He had told John that he was constantly worried about Sherlock. Pretty strange statement for an enemy, wasn't it? And he didn’t seem threatening at all anymore (because of course he had been in this abandoned warehouse but John wasn't easy to intimidate and if he had been a bit worried, he had certainly not let it show – soldiers didn't do that).

Sherlock seemed unimpressed. “Yes, I’ve been hearing about your ‘concern.’”

The man grimaced. “Always so aggressive. You know how much you mean to me. I was worried you could have been harmed. And I told you that I'm sorry about our little argument the other day.”

John was surprised by his affectionate tone. He looked over to Sherlock.

The detective sighed. “Yes. But really – kidnapping my new friend. What did you think he would do to me?”

The other man shrugged. “Everything you let him…”

Sherlock groaned. “You and your pointless jealousy. He's just a friend. Look at him – he's shorter than your sexy PA, hello Anthea by the way, and he is really not that pretty. No offence meant, John. You know what my type is, Mycroft… You!”

John was too busy gaping at the two men. So this tall guy with the dimpled chin and the umbrella was Sherlock's lover?! “You said you don't have a boyfriend,” he burst out.

Sherlock chuckled. “Well… Allow me to introduce you, John – this is Mycroft Holmes.”

“What?! You are _married_ to him?!”

“God, no. And we've never lived together, not since he's moved out of our house back then. He snores…”

“Ah, that’s the reason!” Mycroft Holmes shot back. “Not because you are horribly messy and use to play the violin at four in the night, when other people need their sleep because they have to go to a regular job early in the morning!”

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. “You can't do without these jibes, can you, Mycroft? And have you put on weight again? Too much chocolate because we haven't met for three days?”

The man pressed his lips together for a moment. “No. I've lost two pounds, in fact.”

John was looking from one to the other, desperately trying to keep up. Who the hell was this man then, the man with the same surname? And what had Sherlock meant with him having moved out of their house?

Mycroft seemed to have pity for him as he suddenly offered him a gloved hand. “Excuse my brother, Doctor Watson. It is nice to meet you, and I really should have known you're not Sherlock's type. He likes them tall and well-hung.”

“Mycroft!” Sherlock hissed but he didn’t sound offended – he sounded amused.

And the repeated insult aside… brother?! And what had he just said? And why had Sherlock said Mycroft had been jealous of him?! And suddenly it hit him. “You mean… You're his brother but also…”

“Yes. He's my man. My only man.” It was Sherlock who answered him. He sneaked one arm around the taller man's waist. “He's horribly annoying and arrogant and a tosser but I love him.”

“Ah, you say the sweetest things, brother dear.” And Mycroft lowered his head and kissed Sherlock on the lips. Sherlock eagerly returned the kiss, putting his hand on his brother's cheek.

John felt as if he had received a blow to the head. Incest. Brother loving brother. Kissing in front of a bunch of police officers! He looked around, almost panicking. Nobody was paying any attention to them. But there! Detective Inspector Lestrade! He waved his hand in a friendly gesture, smiling. “They know about it?!” He glanced at the woman next to Mycroft, who was looking at her phone again as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening.

“Of course they know,” Sherlock said casually. “My brother is a big shot in the government, John. In fact he is the British Government. They have long been told that if they say a word about this, they can make their testament. And if the press sees him, they run as fast as they can.”

“Ah, you're exaggerating,” Mycroft said with a mild smile. “Officially I just occupy a minor position in the British government.”

“But a major position in my heart,” Sherlock crooned.

“Aw,” made Mycroft and kissed Sherlock again.

An _interested party_ indeed, John thought, staring at the men who were kissing shamelessly. And was Sherlock really grabbing his brother's bum?!

With dazed eyes, Sherlock turned to him after finally breaking the kiss. “My brother and I will go to his house now. Will see you later in the flat.”

John managed a nod. “Sure,” he croaked.

“You can go home now, Anthea,” Mycroft turned to his assistant.

“Fine. Good night, sir.”

So it _was_ her real name! When Sherlock and Mycroft had left to enter the black limousine, John turned to her. “You… don't mind?”

She looked up from her phone. “What? That they've been shagging like rabbits for five years now? Why would I? They're hot,” she added, dreamily. “Wish they'd let me watch just once. Good night, Doctor Watson. Don't wait up. They haven't done it for three days; you heard them.” She winked at him and then she was gone as if the darkness had sucked her up.

John stood there, frozen to the spot, and he shrieked when he heard a voice behind him. “Good shot.”

He whirled around. “What?”

“Ah, come on. Sherlock thinks I'm an idiot but who else than you should have taken the man out?” The good-looking inspector with the greying hair raised his eyebrows.

John swallowed. “What… What will you do about it?”

“Do? Nothing. I don't really like serial killers. And you saved me lots of paperwork. Okay, I will have to pretend to search for the shooter but do you really think anyone really cares who it was? The public will call you a hero.”

John needed a moment to get his voice back. “Oh. Thank you.”

“Well, who would have solved my cases if Sherlock had died?” Lestrade winked at him.

That was true… “And… you also know about him and…”

“Oh, of course. We both look after the lad. Tends to bring himself into impossible situations. You are obviously the third of our ‘Save Sherlock Association’.” Lestrade chuckled. “And he gets bored so easily. Better to keep him occupied. I give him cases and Mycroft gives him his…”

John groaned. And winced when Lestrade narrowed his eyes and asked, “Not going to cause them any trouble, are you?”

“No. God no. I told him… it's all fine.” He had not really meant an incestuous relationship of course but… Sherlock seemed happy with his brother. Fine, they obviously had their difficulties, but which couple didn’t? And John was hardly the man to judge anyone for their private life. He'd had about two-hundred women and never a real girlfriend. Sherlock and Mycroft seemed to have a monogamous, committed relationship; this conversation had made this very clear. “Good for them,” he said, nodding.

Lestrade smiled. “Great. Wouldn’t do to try harming them. You wouldn’t survive it.”

“Yeah, I just heard as much. Wouldn’t, anyway. It's their business.”

“Good lad. Care to go for a beer?”

It was late, and the day had been crazy. But John nodded. “Why not. Fish and chips, too?

“Oh, you're my man. Let's go, mate.”

And not long after this conversation, John and Greg Lestrade were sitting in a nice pub, enjoying a pleasant ending of a very long, very exciting day. John wondered more than once how the brothers Holmes were getting along right now. And who was doing what to whom… This thought conjured up images which were hard to wrap one’s mind around… John recalled Sherlock telling him that he was married to his work… Well, Mycroft Holmes was some serious piece of work for sure, and Sherlock…? Oh dear. Times would certainly never get boring for them, no matter if they were fighting or making love, so much was sure...

*****

The game started in the car already, safe behind the black privacy screen that divided them from Mycroft's driver – not that the man, who had been driving him for fifteen years or more, wouldn’t have known about their special relationship anyway. Mycroft didn’t trust many people but the few he did trust fully deserved it. And he did know that even though he certainly had some enemies, like all powerful people did, he was also indispensable for the kingdom. He had built up and cemented his position over the past twenty years and nobody dared threaten him with the knowledge about his highly unusual bond with his little brother. Considering his value for the nation, no prosecutor or judge would even touch a prosecution concerning the fully consensual relationship of two male adults. And of course he was in the habit of collecting... information. About basically everybody, especially the mighty. Delicate information, often enough. They were safe.

He and baby brother could have lived together – even though that might have made their (oblivious) parents suspicious. But they would probably simply kill each other if they tried so they had decided long ago that they were better off living on their own and meet just for fun and quality time.

Recently the ride had been a bit bumpy though, only to get bumpier with the appearance of John Watson. There had been harsh words and days of silence, irrationality and unjustified suspicions. They had kissed and reconciled and he had shown Watson what was rightfully his by demonstrating his affection for little brother in an unmistakable way, but the air definitely needed some cleaning and clear statements had to be made and roles adjusted, and as it was their habit, the Holmes brothers were pursuing this goal in their usual way. And Mycroft really didn't want his trusted driver to witness this – he didn't deserve this fate.

“Jealous of John Watson – I ask you!” Sherlock’s fingers were tapping against the door of the car in a fast rhythm.

“Well, you hadn’t been talking to me anymore and then you proceeded to move in with a complete stranger – I ask _you_ , Sherlock!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “ _He_ can live with me playing the violin at night, Mycroft. _He_ doesn’t think I’m a messy menace. _He_ admires me!”

Mycroft snorted. “Please. You haven’t even really moved in with each other. Let’s see how long it takes you to annoy him thoroughly.”

Sherlock sulked, knowing that he was right. “You just behaved like a gorilla showing his arse to his rivals,” he changed the subject.

“I beg your pardon?! You did kiss me back!”

“Of course I did! I missed you… Don’t want to argue with you.”

“Aw, come here.” He grabbed his lover and cuddled him, rubbing his forehead against the thick, black curls. Baby brother smelled delicious, and he was warm and sweet and all pliant for now. “He’s nasty though,” he mumbled then. “Aggressive little man. You were showing off for him.”

“Please. Want a friend...”

“And _I’m_ not your friend?” Mycroft was a bit hurt.

“No. You’re my brother, my soulmate, my lover, the hottest man in the universe. But he’s so helpful at crime scenes and he shot someone for me.”

Yes… The brave little soldier. “I would have done that, too. If I had been there before him and had a gun,” Mycroft mumbled, half-placated.

Sherlock rubbed his thigh. “I know. Good brother. Will still keep him.”

Mycroft huffed.

“Don’t sulk, brother. That’s _my_ job. Oh, we’re there!” And Sherlock was out of the car within an instant.

Mycroft bade his driver good night. He hoped that Anthea had come home safe as well but he was rather sure that anyone who would try to annoy her would pay for it. He quickly followed Sherlock into the house, put his umbrella into its stand and hang up his coat, and then he went upstairs, where little brother was already waiting for him.

*****

They crashed together like two men who had not had any sex for several days. Well… Clothes were ripped off (which made a certain politician wince but he was too smart to complain), hair was ruffled, lips were bruised by needy kisses – and then a consulting detective found himself on his back, his wrists pinned to the mattress by two large hands.

Mycroft's pale blue eyes, usually two calm seas of ice, were sparkling. “You know what I think of little brothers who mess around with little doctors.”

“Not messing around,” Sherlock protested but his legs slung themselves around Mycroft's waist.

“Bet you will parade naked in front of him,” Mycroft accused, thinking of his show-off-little-brother who loved to wear nothing but sheets and slept in the buff even in winter.

“Maybe. But he won’t look at my willy and my globes.”

Mycroft growled deep in his throat. “He should better look elsewhere.” He had already placed cameras around 221B Baker Street but not inside the house. Sherlock would be very cross if he did that and little brother found them.

Sherlock tilted his head, looking up through long, black lashes. “And why is that so, brother of mine?” he purred.

“Because you’re mine!” hissed Mycroft, glowering down on him. “Your willy, your globes and everything else!”

“Oh am I? Then what are you waiting for? Take what’s yours,” provoked Sherlock, and Mycroft growled again and lowered his head to bite into Sherlock's neck, making baby brother yelp in faux protest and pleasure. He sucked hard until he was sure to have left a visible bruise before he let his lips wander over Sherlock's body, causing him to wiggle and pant and say silly things and eventually scream his name to the ceiling when he took his fat cock into his mouth.

Mycroft loved giving head to Sherlock, enjoying his unique taste and the tiny drops of pre-seminal fluid that were dribbling onto his tongue. Even more he loved having Sherlock helpless and wiggling and begging for more. Which he denied him of course. Oh, Sherlock would come but not by getting sucked off.

He let baby brother’s cock plop out of his mouth, making Sherlock yelp in frustration.

“You can’t stop, you fiend! I was so close!”

“Were you now?” Mycroft reached out to the bed stand to grab the conveniently placed bottle of lubricant. He coated his fingers and shoved his forefinger unceremoniously into Sherlock's hole. “No fucking with the doc, hm?” he teased him, making Sherlock glower at him some more.

“He’s got a tiny dick; I’m sure you didn’t miss that.”

“Ogled him thoroughly, did you?” Mycroft added another sticky finger.

Sherlock moaned but it wasn’t out of pain. Mycroft was watching him very closely to make sure he was not suffering. This wasn’t about making him suffer. It was about making sure he knew whom he belonged to.

“Hard to miss in his tight jeans. Don’t fancy men with tiny cocks,” Sherlock clarified.

“Yes, we all know you’re a size queen.” Mycroft was content that he had loosened him up as much as it was necessary. It had been only three days after all. Not enough time to heal over. In an instant he was all over his brother, his large cock nudging against the forbidden door.

Sherlock made a noise of pleasure and guided him in with a long-fingered hand. “Yes. Fuck me, Mycroft.”

“I’ll show you ogling other men,” Mycroft hissed, sliding in half-way. Which was pretty far, given his length.

“Didn’t! Oh, yes… That’s my man!”

“Yes! I’m your man and you’re mine. Don’t forget it again!”

“Never did,” Sherlock brought out and then Mycroft started fucking him in earnest while claiming his mouth in a deep, messy, possessive kiss.

Neither of them was wasting a thought on cases, having almost died (and Mycroft would be having a word with baby brother about that for sure), John Watson and their silly argument from three days ago. It was all about the obscene noises they were producing, the smell of musk, body wash and fresh sweat, and having their sexual organs stimulated in the most pleasurable way. They were not just fucking – they were merging, and every deep thrust hammered home Mycroft's love for his little brother and the fact that he was his, and his alone, no matter that he was now sharing a flat with another man. If John had been gay, Mycroft would have never allowed this but he could read the signs very well. In fact, there wasn’t much to read as John clearly fancied Anthea, not Sherlock. Not that he stood a chance there.

Sherlock's arms tight around his neck, Mycroft took him with increased force until he came without warning, filling Sherlock to the brim, and little brother followed with an ear-deafening scream, shooting sticky seed into the space between their bodies and up to his own chin. Mycroft crashed onto him while slipping out of him, and Sherlock made a small noise of discomfort.

“No crushing me,” he mumbled, but Mycroft didn’t move just now.

“Mine,” he said firmly, and Sherlock patted his back.

“Yours. But not if you suffocate me!”

Mycroft, feeling satisfied in more than one way, rolled over and pulled at Sherlock's arm until the younger man’s head was resting on his chest and the lithe form was in his arms where it belonged.

He pulled the blanket over them. “You’re staying.”

“Okay. Have to go to the Yard tomorrow morning though. Well, it’s today already. Make my testimony.”

“I will drop you off on my way to the office. Sherlock...”

“Fine, fine. I promise. No argument, no flirting with anyone else. Ever.”

“I should hope so! But! Also – no playing with your life anymore. It could have gone wrong, you know!”

“Ah. I chose the right pill.”

“Are you sure? A hundred percent?”

Sherlock swallowed. “Maybe just ninety-nine.”

“That’s not good enough. I know you were bored. Everything bores you. But never again, you hear me?”

“ _You_ don’t bore me,” Sherlock said meekly. “Promised. Never again.”

Mycroft didn’t believe a word of it. He knew his brother. He knew him very well. And he also knew he could never live without him. “Can’t lose you,” he mumbled, stroking the tousled curls.

“Won’t,” mumbled Sherlock. “John will look after me. Lestrade does already.”

Yes. The only reason why he hadn’t opposed Sherlock's decision to move in with John more heartily. The doctor had proven tonight that he would do basically everything for Sherlock. As long as he did it out of friendship, it was fine. And Sherlock couldn’t have enough people who wanted to protect him. Sherlock and people was a double-edged sword though – it was good if they hated him so they wouldn’t try to take him away from Mycroft. But it was also good if they cared about him so they wanted to keep him safe. Well, he had to trust baby brother. With not leaving him and not risking his life too much.

“Love you, Mycie,” Sherlock mumbled in a sleepy, affectionate tone.

“Love you, too, Lockie,” Mycroft said, rubbing his neck the way Sherlock loved it. “Sleep now.”

It took him some time to fall asleep, being too aware that he could have lost his lover tonight. He listened to his quiet breathing for a long time, glad that Sherlock was with him, safe and alive, and shagged to sleep. And eventually, sleep claimed him, too, and he started to snore.


	2. The Great Game - Making Up, Making Out

“Do you know what happens if you don’t leave me alone, Sherlock, to you?”

Sherlock almost rolled eyes. “Oh, let me guess: I get killed.” Moriarty had killed Carl Powers. Right here, in this pool, when he had been not much more than a boy. His first case. The beginning of his obsession. Almost a fond memory. He guessed it was one for Moriarty, too…

The consulting criminal made a grimace of disgust. “ _Kill_ you? No, don’t be obvious. I mean, I’m gonna kill you anyway some day. I don’t wanna rush it, though. I’m saving it up for something special. No-no-no-no-no. If you don’t stop prying, I’ll burn you. I’ll burn the heart out of you,” he added, theatrically.

Everything about the man was theatrical. Sherlock wasn’t overly fond of this character trait. “I have been reliably informed that I don’t have one,” he said softly. He saw John tighten his lips and gave him an invisible sign to keep calm and quiet.

Moriarty was watching him closely. “But we both know that’s not quite true.”

 _Do tell…_ Sherlock didn’t react. Of course Moriarty was talking about John, not Mycroft. He had no idea about him and Mycroft.

Jim shrugged. “Well, I’d better be off. Well, so nice to have had a proper chat.”

Sherlock could have imagined a nicer way to spend his evening. A much nicer way. But what had to be done had to be done. He raised the gun. “What if I was to shoot you now – right now?”

As he had expected, Jim wasn’t impressed. Or scared. “Then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face.” He made a grimace that almost made Sherlock smile, a grimace of utter shock and surprise before he grinned. “’Cause I’d be surprised, Sherlock; really I would.  
And just a teensy bit... disappointed. And of course you wouldn’t be able to cherish it for very long.” He turned to leave. “Ciao, Sherlock Holmes.”

“Catch... you... later,” Sherlock retorted. There was something endearing about the man; he couldn’t deny it. Too bad he was on the wrong side of the law.

“No you won’t!” And with this, Moriarty was gone.

Sherlock hurried to free John from the vest with its explosive attachment.

John shook his head when he had pushed it away as far as possible. “Damn, Sherlock! He catches me and almost kills us and you give him the memory stick to reward him?! Are you mad?” He stared at the gallery where the snipers had to be hiding.

Sherlock grinned. “Nope.” And then he grinned even wider when the door was opened again and Jim came back. Or rather: he was pushed back in. Followed by Mycroft, Anthea and four agents, dressed in black.

“Shoot them!” Jim yelled, looking up at the gallery, and John threw himself onto the floor, trying to pull Sherlock with him but the detective escaped his grip.

“Ah, Mr Moriarty. You really think these are your people up there?” Mycroft asked in a mocking tone. “I’m afraid I have to disappoint you.”

John slowly came back onto his feet, staring at Mycroft, then Sherlock. “You… utter… cock!”

“Pardon me?” Sherlock tried to look innocent while he was watching two agents getting the bomb-vest out of the large room.

“You called Mycroft in!”

“Of course I did. I told you I gave him the memory stick. And well, he and his lot have had some interest in Moriarty’s activities for quite a while.” He had found this out in the morning after the ‘pink lady’ case, when they’d had a proper talk about the events of the previous night during breakfast.

He saw the agents that had been placed on the gallery coming down, and they guided Moriarty outside, his hands now in cuffs. He looked rather beaten. Anthea followed them, for a change not staring at her phone. Somehow Sherlock imagined her with a whip, making sure the agents didn’t do anything wrong, and he could hardly suppress a grin.

John gaped at him. “And the stick you gave Moriarty...”

“...was of course a fake like the Vermeer. You didn't seriously think I would betray my brother and the country like this, did you?”

“I don’t believe it!”

Mycroft walked over to them, looking rather smug. “Mr Moriarty will join his accomplices in prison now. One of them keeps singing like a bird. His right hand, I believe. Dear Jim will never get out of prison again. Stepped into our trap like some moron.”

“I was covered in bombs!” John yelled. “And you knew it!”

“No, John, I did not know he would target you. I did consider it,” Sherlock conceded, shrugging. “But there were no hostile guns pointed at us. We both got away unharmed so be grateful.”

“Grateful!” John yelled, and then made a step back when Mycroft stood in front of him, having moved with the speed and determination of a snake attacking a rabbit.

“Calm down, Doctor Watson. And don’t you dare raise a hand against my brother.” His voice had been quiet but dangerous, and Sherlock felt his trousers get tight.

Mycroft had a way with threatening words! Sexy!

John recovered quickly though. “And that he didn’t want to take the West case… Was that just a ruse as well?”

Sibling rivalry, he had thought. Sherlock rolled his eyes. Ridiculous!

Mycroft sighed. “No. He was a bit upset with me. Again.”

“I was!” Sherlock said, nodding. “Stood me up! Twice!” He had not told John why he had refused to help Mycroft with the case. Private life was private! Most of the times. Now it wasn’t so important. He and Mycie were good. Great, actually.

“I had no choice, brother mine. And I apologised. And we made up,” he said, turning to John again. “And made a little plan for our friend Jim.”

“You should have told me!” John complained again.

Sherlock sighed. Sometimes his friend was more resentful than him! “Maybe.”

“Maybe?!”

“You might have given our plan away,” Sherlock added, unwisely.

John threw his hands into the air. “I would have _not_!”

Anthea joined them, ignoring his outburst completely. “He’s been driven off. I’ll take care of the paperwork.”

Mycroft smiled at her. “No hurry. We’ll do this in the morning. You can go home now.”

“Fine. Good night, sir. Sherlock.” With this she walked away, and John looked even more pissed off than before.

Mycroft put his hand onto Sherlock's shoulder. “Nothing more to be done now, little brother. Case solved. Come with me?”

“You’ll snore again,” Sherlock said, darkly, but he couldn’t suppress a smile.

“You can press a pillow on my face again then, darling,” Mycroft offered suavely.

“I’d like to press something else on it,” Sherlock confessed.

“Oh, that sounds lovely. Let’s go.”

“And how do _I_ get home?!” yelled John.

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll get a cab,” Sherlock suggested, and John glowered dangerously at him.

Mycroft made a placating gesture with his hands. “No, I’ll ask Agent Jefferson to give you a ride. He’s still there, awaiting my instructions.”

“Fine,” John mumbled. “Lost my jacket. It’s cold.”

“You’ll get a new one, and it will be warm in the car,” Mycroft soothed him, his tone sounding a tad irritated. “Just don’t give my brother a hard time for this.”

“Mycroft will do that already,” Sherlock said, winking.

Mycroft laughed and John snorted, amusement sparkling in his eyes to Sherlock's relief, and then they left the pool after this exciting evening. It was time to make it exciting in a totally different way. And Mycroft still had to make up for cancelling two dates on short notice in one bloody week.

*****

“You flirted rather appallingly – you and our dear Jim,” Mycroft said when Sherlock robbed closer to him to stroke his thigh.

Sherlock sighed. “ _He_ flirted, and I reacted to it. You knew he was quite obsessed with me. We planned it together!” Mycroft had not said a word about it in John's presence, which was quite typical for him.

Mycroft nodded and patted his hand. “I understand, I really do. But… you can't deny that you find him quite appealing, and you also can't deny that if you witnessed me talking to someone in such a way, you would explode.”

“Yeah, all right, I would. Nobody is allowed to flirt with you!” hissed Sherlock, and the irony was not quite lost to him. But this was something else!

“It is nothing else,” Mycroft threw in, having deduced his thoughts easily.

“It is, though,” Sherlock mumbled stubbornly. “You're _my_ big brother. Hands off!”

Mycroft tilted his head, a smile pulling at his beautifully shaped lips. “How did we go from you flirting with a criminal mastermind to you being jealous of someone non-existent?”

Sherlock huffed. “I was just playing the game to make him confess.”

“That would hardly be enough,” Mycroft said, reasonably. “But he threatened you with killing John. He had snipers on you. Well, he thought he had. Gives us enough reason to take his little empire apart. This Moran type could hardly wait to spit everything out, and he seems to know basically everything about the organisation. He must be his right hand. And more. I suppose he was jealous of you so when we caught him, he used the opportunity to get back at his boss and lover.”

“God, these people are so obvious.”

Mycroft chuckled. “Indeed they are. Oh, we are there. Out with you and off to bed.”

Sherlock hastened to the door and impatiently waited for Mycroft to open up as he had not taken the key with him and there was nothing in his coat pocket to pick the lock while Mycroft was talking to his driver.

“Finally!” Sherlock was stepping from one foot onto the other.

“Patience, brother dear. Oh, Moriarty had planned to have you seduced and compromised by a woman, a certain Miss Adler, who calls herself a Dominatrix. Their scheme would have involved the Royal Family.” He shuddered visibly.

Sherlock, not caring about the Windsors in the least, snorted. “A woman? Is he mad? And Dominatrix – sounds like a prostitute.” He grimaced while stepping into the house and shrugging off his coat in one fluid motion.

Mycroft locked the door and put the alarm in place. “Kind of, yes. She would not approve of this label I'm sure.”

“Should that matter to me? Never going to meet her.”

Mycroft nodded. “Which is very good…” He slipped out of his coat and hung it up. “Anthea will have a word with her and make it clear to her that England is not the best place to live for her. She can be very convincing.”

Sherlock was very well aware that Anthea was not just a pretty face and long legs and being glued to a phone. He wouldn’t have wanted to mess with her. “I bet… But you don't seriously think I'd be interested in any woman, let alone a…”

“No, but I think she knows how to play.”

“I'm not playing with girls,” Sherlock purred, putting his arm around his brother's neck. “And neither do I play with little men with a Napoleon complex if I can avoid it. I only like to play with tall, lovely brothers.”

“And they are eternally grateful for it,” Mycroft assured him and they kissed. And kissed. “I… should tell you something though…” he mumbled when they broke apart for some much needed air.

“Later. No time for talking now, as long as it doesn't involve imminent threats?”

“Not that imminent, no. Later then.”

Sherlock grabbed his hand and dragged him upstairs. It was very late but Mycroft had to make up for neglecting him and for being jealous and thinking he would fall for a stupid _woman_. And they also had to celebrate the success of their brilliant scheming.

*****

It was always a wonder to watch Sherlock undress. Revealing pale skin, sculpted muscles, delicate collarbones and a tasty erection. Mycroft could have just watched him for hours, but it was already way after midnight and Sherlock didn’t have the patience for this anyway.

“Why are you still not naked?” he complained after ripping off his socks.

“It’s late. And I’m old.” Mycroft fumbled with the buttons of his waistcoat.

Sherlock growled and batted his hands away to take care of them himself. Usually this ended with several buttons falling on the floor, but this time he managed to get waistcoat and shirt off without destroying anything. Which was a miracle in itself as he kept kissing Mycroft's lips or nibbling at his neck while he was freeing him from his layers of clothing.

When his upper body was naked, Mycroft was unceremoniously manhandled to and onto his bed, where Sherlock freed him from his trousers, pants, and socks as well. Mycroft tried not to wince when his expensive clothes were carelessly thrown onto the carpet. But it wasn’t really important now. What was important was that Sherlock had left this pool without a scratch. He’d had a gun of course; Mycroft wouldn’t have let him go into there without that. And he could have convicted Moriarty without this showdown but Sherlock had, of course, insisted on it. He had wanted to know his nemesis, the man who was so obsessed with him; had wanted it so badly that he had exposed his dear friend Doctor Watson to being taken hostage and dressed into an explosive vest. If he was honest, the whole scenario had been worth the trouble just for having John scared like this. The doc wasn’t scared easily and he had not shown it but it had been evident nonetheless.

While Sherlock was plundering his mouth and pawing at him as if there was no tomorrow, Mycroft wondered, concerned, what his brother would say if he knew why Moriarty had targeted him. Well, they would find out soon enough. He must have been crazy to have planned to tell him before this encounter… And…

“Mycroft! We are about to have sex!” Sherlock had stopped kissing and him and was looking at him with furious eyes. “Don’t lie there like a bloody corpse!”

“Ah, don’t tell me that you never imagined screwing one,” Mycroft teased him.

“If you go on like this, I will!” Sherlock pulled at his right ear none too gently. “And I think we’ve agreed on something...”

And only a few seconds later, Mycroft was kissing Sherlock again – but not his mouth. And he was glad, not only because he enjoyed doing all kinds of things to his brother’s incredibly attractive behind but because it meant he couldn’t talk.

*****

There had to be a special place in heaven for fantastically-skilled-arselicker-big-brothers, Sherlock thought while he was trying to keep his balance and not fall over at the shameless things Mycroft was doing to him. God, what a long tongue he had, and he for sure knew how to use it! He had licked him for a few minutes and then added his beautiful, long fingers to the mix, and they had opened him up for Mycroft's tongue to invade him even deeper. Sherlock’s own right hand was rubbing his cock in a lazy rhythm. He did not plan to come that soon.

Sherlock had not missed his brother’s relief about postponing whatever he had wanted to tell him. Sherlock wouldn’t have needed to be a genius to figure out that it was something that might upset him. But whatever it was – a brother who did such things to him, while groaning, slurping and enjoying it, deserved forgiveness. And Mycroft used to fret his pretty head about all kind of things – perhaps it was something totally unimportant.

In any way Sherlock let himself be worshipped without wasting much thought at the secret his brother would tell him later. Mycroft had to make up for a bunch of things and he was doing it to Sherlock's great satisfaction. Eventually Sherlock shifted his weight and lowered his head to suck Mycroft's cock while big brother was rimming him so well that it was probably forbidden. And Mycroft had a gorgeous cock. A large red crown with a cute little slit and a thick and exceptionally long shaft that made him scream when he was impaled on it – in ecstasy, not pain, of course.

And a few minutes into delightful arse-eating and giving head, Sherlock decided that it was time to saddle up.

Since Mycroft had loosened him up so nicely already, Sherlock forewent any further preparation and took his rightful seat on his brother’s large, lubed appendage. Mycroft's hands were on his hips to stabilise him and Sherlock held onto big brother’s shoulders and started to ride him, taking the whole massive member in without any hesitation.

“Slowly, Sherlock,” Mycroft admonished him. “You’re going to hurt yourself!”

“Nonsense.” Sherlock rode him bit faster, enjoying the burn and the stimulation. He could have done this forever. Well, of course that would not work. His balls were drawing up, his cock was leaking fluid severely now, and the pull in his groin told him that he was approaching his crisis pretty fast now, and it was the old problem of simultaneously wanting to reach the fulfilment as quickly as possible and making the way there last as long as he could.

Mycroft was a panting mess beneath him. His usually impeccable hair tousled, his cheeks and nose reddened, his tongue licking his lips every few second and his hips meeting Sherlock's movements with needy thrusts, he was chasing his own orgasm relentlessly. A stream of curses that nobody who knew him would expect him to even know (except for Anthea, certainly) left his reddened lips and then Sherlock felt him shooting his seed into his canal, and he grabbed his cock and pulled rudely at it and tumbled over the edge only a few seconds after his brother, showering him with thick ropes of hot, white come.

He crashed onto Mycroft like a boneless puppet, just so avoiding hitting his head against his older brother’s, panting as if he had run through all of London to catch a criminal. “God, Mycie… That was awesome,” he brought out eventually.

His brother had closed his arms around his sweaty waist. “Yes,” croaked the politician. “Gorgeous.”

They stayed like this for a while and Sherlock knew they would be glued together very soon. They definitely needed a shower. And sleep. He guessed Mycroft would not go to work before nine though. “Okay,” he mumbled. “Spit it out. What did you want to tell me?”

Mycroft stilled beneath him. “Erm. Nothing. Not now.”

Sherlock raised his head. “Come on. It can’t be that bad.”

“It is, though.” Mycroft paused. “Fine. Well… Listen… Ahem… Moriarty… He… met our… little sister.”

Very slowly, Sherlock raised his head. “Our… what?!”

*****

“Anthea? Good morning. Um, I’ll come to the office later.” Somehow he had reached his phone on the bed stand.

“ _Are you all right, sir?”_

“Quite all right. Just… I know I said we’d do it together but could you possibly start with the pa-…”

“ _There are already finished, sir, ready to be signed. And you have only one meeting for this afternoon. Sir Edwin will speak to the PM about Moriarty. He was very eager to hear everything about it and is in the picture.”_

Thank God for Anthea. Of course he wasn’t thinking this for the first time… “I owe you something.”

He heard a low chuckle. _“Oh, I have an idea…”_ Her voice sounded sultry.

Mycroft froze. “Um… Okay. I’ll talk to… someone about it.”

He heard a squeak, then she cleared her throat. _“That would be lovely. Anyway, take your time. You are sure you don’t need medical attention?”_ Was there a hint of mockery in her tone? Probably yes…

“Yes. I’m fine.” Nothing an ice pack couldn’t heal. And some more sleep.

Actually Sherlock had taken the truth about Eurus and Redbeard/Victor Trevor and the unsupervised conversation of their sister and Moriarty quite well. For the first few minutes. While Mycroft was explaining everything. Then he had exploded. Thrown a tantrum. A big one. And then he had taken his revenge. A rude rogering. Making his point.

Mycroft was completely sticky and his bladder was full but he couldn’t move right now. He had woken up in an empty bed with a seriously sore arse and pretty heavy legs. He would text Sherlock and ask him to forgive him again. Perhaps little brother already had? It was all a bit of a blur.

“ _If you’re sure…”_

Mycroft shrieked when he heard steps.

“ _Sir?!”_ Anthea sounded alarmed now.

Mycroft gulped. “Everything’s fine.”

“ _Oh,”_ she breathed. _“To be a fly on the wall… If you need anything, let me know.”_

“Yes,” Mycroft croaked. “See you later.”

“ _If you can still walk then.”_ She chuckled and ended the connection.

Mycroft gaped at his brother, who was fully dressed and was standing in front of the bed with his arms crossed and a face like thunderclouds. “Good… Good morning, Sherlock.”

“Good morning… traitor!”

“Oh, please, I'm so sorry!”

Sherlock glowered at him before he grinned and sat down next to him on the bed. “Yeah, all right. It was me who forgot about her after all. I want to see her.”

“Sure. You can visit her. I’ll arrange it.” Mycroft would make sure Eurus’ incarceration would be thoroughly checked over. He didn’t like Moriarty’s attack at Sherlock. He didn’t like it one bit. He had always thought that Sherrinford was secure but now he was not entirely convinced that it hadn’t been Eurus who had been pulling Moriarty’s strings. Well, he would make very sure she could never do anything to harm his little brother. One wrong move from her and he would convince Sherlock that he should break off any contact again. And throw her into the deepest cellar and sod her help for the kingdom.

“Good. How are you?” Sherlock sounded a bit guilty.

“A bit sore. You were quite vigorous.”

“Ah, I know. Come, let’s get you in the bathroom, and you’ll take a nice hot bath.”

Mycroft beamed at him. “Yes. Will you join me?” He felt a bit silly the next moment. Sherlock was dressed already.

But little brother grinned. “No problem. We didn’t have a bath together for ages.”

Mycroft scrambled out of the bed. Then he paused. “You’re not going to drown me, are you?”

Sherlock laughed. “No. I should, though. Nasty brother!”

“I’ll make up for it.”

“Oh you will.”

Mycroft cleared his throat. “Um… Anthea did something important for me. She might deserve a reward.”

“God, she still wants to watch?!”

“Well, we never let her…”

Sherlock sighed. “All right. Make an appointment for next week then. But no touching!”

“Of course not!”

Arm in arm, they walked to the bathroom. Mycroft's mood had brightened up tremendously. Sherlock had forgiven him. “I love you, little brother,” he said when he was sitting between Sherlock's long legs in hot, deliciously smelling water, being washed with a sponge.

“I love you, too. Even though you’re a tosser!”

Mycroft chuckled and leaned his head against Sherlock's shoulder. What a day to be alive.


End file.
